


Treat Her Right

by Kat_of_a_Different_Color



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-07-31 15:17:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_of_a_Different_Color/pseuds/Kat_of_a_Different_Color
Summary: Making the best of an... unfortunate situation finds Ned and Cat emergency-betrothing Sansa to Theon





	1. Chapter 1

When the raven from King’s Landing arrives, Catelyn reads it just after her husband, and just like him, she immediately knows what it means.

“Refuse him,” she begs Ned. “I need you here.”

“I cannot just refuse the king, Cat,” he replies, looking up at her from where he sits on their bed as she paces the room; the lines around his eyes and mouth seem deeper than ever.

“He will not just ask you to be his new Hand,” she hisses. “He will ask for Sansa for the crown prince.”

Rubbing between his eyebrows, Ned says, “Yes, I suspect he will. Should I refuse him that as well?”

“Yes!” she replies. Before this happened, when Jon Arryn was still alive, she had at least thought she could keep Sansa somewhere in the North, where people are truly honorable. The South is different; even anointed knights make false promises and play tricks, but Sansa has only ever known the honor of the North. She will think that everyone really means what they say; she will not be safe. Besides, “I had a letter from Lysa,” she tells Ned, “a few years ago. She told me that the prince played a cruel trick on her Robin - he skinned the poor boy’s cat, Ned, and apparently he did the same to his own brother the year before.”

“Why did you not tell me?” Ned asks.

“It was just a letter from Lysa,” she says, “and King’s Landing is over five hundred leagues away. I did not think it mattered.”

Ned sighs. “That changes things,” he says. “I- Gods know I do not want to leave you, Cat. What am I to do? If the king comes all the way to Winterfell, which he well may, I cannot refuse him then.”

“So we must head this off now,” she replies, nodding. “Who would make a good Hand of the King, though?”

“Stannis would, but he and Robert barely spoke the last time I saw them in the same room. And I doubt that’s gotten better. Robert complained often about his younger brother when we fostered together.”

“Renly?” Catelyn suggests.

They discuss a few options, but come to no conclusions before they both fall asleep.

When a rider arrives a week after the raven announcing Jon Arryn’s death — two days after they receive another raven from King Robert, requesting officially that Ned be his Hand — covered in dust and looking exhausted, Catelyn escorts him to Ned herself, intrigued when the rider tells her he has a message from Jon Arryn that he was instructed to give only to Ned Stark.

Ned thanks the rider and waits for him to leave before opening the letter. Whatever it contains makes his face go white. She takes the letter when he holds it out to her wordlessly and reads it for herself.

The words it contains make her understand Ned’s reaction, because she goes pale, too. “Gods,” she breathes.

“I need to tell Robert,” Ned says eventually. “He needs to know.”

“He does,” she agrees. “But does it have to be you? Could you not send someone to deliver the message in your place?” She knows already what his answer will be, but she has to ask.

“I have to go, Cat,” he says heavily. “This can’t wait, and I wouldn’t trust anyone to get this to the King without revealing something.”

She sighs and nods. “All right,” she agrees. “But I want Sansa betrothed before you leave, Ned. I want you to be able to tell the King that she is already promised to another when he asks about her.”

“Does it really matter?” he asks, a furrow between his brows as he looks at her. “It is not as if Joffrey will be an option, not after he hears what I have to tell him.”

“The king is not the only one at court who might want to wed our Sansa to their son. Willas Tyrell is as yet unwed, as is the king’s brother Renly. And surely the King will set aside his Lannister wife once he knows this, and then he, too, will be seeking a new wife. With this revelation, Stannis and Renly are the only heirs to the Iron Throne, since Stannis has only poor Shireen.” She frowns. “It will have to be someone close, Ned. Close and of a reasonable station.” Flicking through ideas, she sighs when she realizes that the option she has had in the back of her head since they got the first raven is the only option that will work in the time they have before Ned leaves. “It will have to be Theon,” she says, lips pursing. “The Mother knows I like him little enough, and with his… behavior… he is not the best choice for Sansa. But he will have to be enough.”

Ned looks at her grimly. “I’ll have someone fetch him,” he says.

They wait quietly together for Theon to arrive; she, leaning on the windowsill, he, coming to stand behind her and wrap an arm around her waist. He leans his head against her temple and breathes in, kissing the side of her head as a knock sounds on the door.

Pulling away from her, he calls, “Enter.”

Theon comes in, brows furrowing when he sees that she is in the room, too. “What is it, Lord Stark?” he asks. “What did you call me for?”

Ned walks back to his desk and sits; she comes to stand beside him. She wants to see Theon’s reaction to this.

“I just got a message,” Ned tells Theon, “from King’s Landing. It must have been one of the last things Jon Arryn did, because the rider who delivered the message rode hard the whole way here.”

Theon takes Ned’s pause as an indication to speak. “What has that to do with me, my lord?” he asks, looking confused.

“What do you think of Sansa?” Ned asks, then. She purses her lips, wishing she could at least tell him what to say. Theon glances at her, and looks worried, so she does her best to smooth her face.

“My lord?”

“It’s an easy enough question, Theon,” she says, when it becomes clear that Ned will not be clarifying his query. “And be honest, please.”

With a shake of his head, he becomes the carefree youth she disdains. “She… begging your pardon, my lord, but she’s a bit prim and… fussy, always with something to say about how one thing or the other isn’t proper.”

“She’s young. She’ll grow out of that,” Catelyn informs him. “I had that phase, too. What do you think of her looks?”

This seems to startle Theon. He shrugs. “She’s pretty, aye.”

“I hear you have a fondness for redheads?” she says, one eyebrow rising on her forehead.

Theon actually blushes - she hadn’t expected that - and says, defensively, “And what if I have? Why are you asking me these questions? My lady,” he tacks on at the end, at least trying to sound respectful.

“I must travel to King’s Landing,” Ned tells Theon. “And before I leave, Sansa must be betrothed.”

It doesn’t take much for Theon to connect the dots, though he seems even more confused. “You want me to marry Sansa?” he asks incredulously. “Are you mad? She hates me!”

“I sincerely doubt that, Theon,” Catelyn says, for she has observed the looks Sansa gives Theon when he isn’t looking. And the looks Theon gives Sansa, when she isn’t looking (longing and wistful, not lecherous, or she would never have suggested him).

“I- all right,” he agrees, faster than she would have expected. “Wh-”

“We need to tell Sansa,” she says. “Can you go and find her, Theon?”

Theon nods and rises. “I will return shortly, my lord, my lady,” he says.

* * *

He’s glad he was able to get out of Lord Stark’s study before this really hit him. Lord Stark wants him to marry Sansa, and Lady Stark does not seem completely opposed. He finds that the oddest of everything that just happened. Lady Catelyn has never liked him, and so it’s rather mind-boggling that she would support this match.

And what was it she said, about Sansa not hating him? Has she seen something? Heard something? Is it possible that she actually holds some manner of tender feelings for him? Yesterday he would have said that such a prospect was impossible. But as he hurries down the hallways of Winterfell to the chamber used for needlework by the various ladies of the castle — especially the sour-faced old septa (who really does hate him) and the two Stark daughters — he begins to think that maybe such a thing isn’t beyond his reach after all.

He knocks at the doorway and pokes his head in. “Good morning, Septa,” he says with a cocky smile that makes her frown at him.

“Greyjoy,” she says frostily. “What are you here for?”

“Lord Stark sent me for Lady Sansa,” he tells her, looking around the room, eyes catching on Sansa’s fire-red hair. He winks at her, preening when she blushes and stares back at him — though only for a moment; her eyes drop to the embroidery in her lap, which she folds neatly and sets in the basket at her feet.

“Septa Mordane,” she says, with a sweet smile for the sour woman, “I’ll just bring this to my room so I can work on it more later.”

“Of course, child,” the septa says, patting Sansa’s hand as she passes.

Sansa flicks a nervous glance up at him as she leaves the sewing room behind and follows him down the hallway. “Do you know what this is about, Theon?”

Smirking, he nods. “I think you’ll like hearing it from your father better, though, Lady Sansa.” She frowns at him.

“Tell me, Theon,” she demands. He just shakes his head; this is far too entertaining. And now, knowing that she is to be his wife… Obviously, it will be some years yet before they wed, as she is only thirteen and he, seventeen.

Her eyes narrow on him, and he smirks again. “You won’t get me to tell you what it is by looking at me that way, Lady Sansa.” He lets a hint of his usual flirtatiousness sneak into his tone.

“Theon,” she complains as they approach her father’s study. He just shrugs at her and knocks on the door, one side of his mouth curling up in a smile as she walks in past him.

“Sansa,” her father says fondly, standing and walking around his desk to take her face in his hands and kiss her forehead. Sansa’s brow furrows with confusion when she hears the door close and realizes that he is still in the room.

“Father, what is Theon doing here?” she asks, then blushes. “I apologize; that was badly put.”

“Peace, child, we know what you meant,” Lord Stark says. “Theon is here because this discussion pertains to him as well.”

He watches as Sansa’s frown deepens, as she thinks, trying to figure out what her father could possibly want to talk to both of them about. For a split second, a slightly hopeful expression crosses her face, but she shakes her head and dismisses whatever thought conjured it immediately. “Mother?” Sansa queries after the silence stretches long enough to make her squirm in her seat.

“We told your brother Robb a few days ago that we received a raven from King’s Landing last week,” Lady Catelyn says, placing a hand on Lord Eddard’s shoulder. “It informed your father that Jon Arryn, who was Hand to King Robert, died about a fortnight ago. Two days ago, we received another raven, that one requesting that your father travel to King’s Landing and be King Robert’s new Hand. And today a rider appeared at our gates, carrying a letter for your father from Jon Arryn. It contained concerning news that means your father will have to travel to King’s Landing with haste, and soon. But there is one matter we agree must be settled before he leaves.”

“And what is that?” Sansa asks when Lady Catelyn pauses.

“Your betrothal,” Lord Eddard tells her.

For a moment, Sansa sits as still as a stone. And then she stands, wide-eyed as she whirls to look at Theon. “And…” she says in a shaking voice, “and that is why Theon is here?”

“It is,” Lady Catelyn confirms, her eyes narrowing at Theon behind her daughter’s back. He takes the warning for what it is intended as — he is to keep his hands away from her precious daughter.

“And,” Sansa continues, voice even shakier, “you do not object to this, Theon?” There is an apprehension Theon has not seen before in her round, blue eyes, one he finds he does not like seeing there.

“No,” he says, making his voice gentler than he can remember it being since before he was sent to Winterfell, “I do not object to it, my lady.”

“If- if we are betrothed,” she says, “you may call me by my given name.” She turns to look at her parents, then. “By your leave, Father?” The nod Lord Eddard gives her brings a bright smile to her face, one that gives him a funny squeezing sensation in his chest when she turns it on him.

She looks at him expectantly. “As you wish, Sansa,” he says with a bow. She grins at him and extends her hand, giggling when he blinks at it in bafflement before he remembers and brings her knuckles to his lips, kissing them lightly.

“You have no objections to this, then, Sansa?” her father asks. Sansa turns to him and shakes her head, still smiling brightly. “Then I will announce your betrothal at dinner this evening,” he tells them. “You may both go, if you have nothing more to say to me.”

Sansa dips a shallow curtsey to her father while Theon sketches a slight bow, and they turn to leave the room together. “Would you like to go for a walk in the Godswood?” Theon asks, hoping she will say yes. He does not know what he will say to Robb or Jon if he sees them before dinner. How is he to continue acting just as he has, now that he is betrothed to their sister? He does not know if he can manage it.

“I would,” she says. “Just let me put this in my room first?” She lifts her sewing basket to indicate what she means. “If we are to walk outside, I should probably put on a cloak, as well,” she adds, biting her lip.

He follows her to her room and stands at the door, quashing the urge to shuffle his feet nervously. The idea of wedding Sansa has occurred to him several times in his years here at Winterfell — occurred, and been discarded near-immediately. Before today, he would never have thought, never even imagined, that Lord Stark would wed his precious elder daughter to his ward — hostage, really — the son of an enemy he defeated in battle. Will he and Sansa stay here, he wonders, will he ever be allowed to go home to Pyke?

(He doesn’t allow himself the thought that Winterfell has been a warmer and more welcoming home for him than Pyke ever was, that he misses his father not at all, that he barely wants to return. If he could go to see his mother, he would like to, but in truth he would prefer to stay here in the North, with Robb — and, now, with Sansa.)

(He does allow himself, for the first time, to acknowledge that Sansa is the reason for his fascination with red hair — that she is the reason Ros is his favorite of the whores he visits.)


	2. Chapter 2

He catches sight of two figures walking together into the godswood and stares after them, trying to discern their identities. The taller one looked like Theon, with his brown hair and slight (well, slighter than Robb, at any rate) build, but the shorter? Skirts swept the ground beneath her cloak, and her hair was the same red as his, as Rickon’s. It must have been Sansa — but why would she be walking with Theon, of all people, and in the godswood? Theon disdains the Old Gods (and the New), preferring instead his Drowned God (_what is dead may never die_, Robb has heard far too many times). And why would Theon be walking with Sansa?

As far as he knows, Sansa and Theon barely speak to each other, though not from animosity between them. They simply have little in common. If they did speak more often, though, Robb knows he would be having words with Theon about treating her properly.

“Robb,” Jon calls, “you’re woolgathering.”

Turning to his brother, frowning, he says, “I just saw Sansa and Theon walk into the godswood.”

Jon reacts with a suspicious scowl. “What? Why would they even be speaking to each other?”

“She’s only _thirteen_,” Robb mutters. “He can’t possibly be interested… can he?”

Shuddering, Jon says, “Gods, I hope not.”

“He can’t be,” Rob says flatly. The thought alone makes him want to retch. Sansa, his sweet, loving sister, should not be anywhere near a reprobate like Theon. “Should we follow them?”

Jon nods his agreement, but before they can get very far, Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms, refuses to let them leave, saying that they both need at least one more fight today and passing them both blunted swords. They are both distracted by thoughts of their sister and Theon, though, so both make mistakes that have Ser Rodrik berating them long past when their practice bout could have ended.

Though he searches for her once Ser Rodrik dismisses them, he does not see Sansa again until dinner — and even then, he comes into the hall to see that Theon has taken the seat to one side of Sansa, and Bran is already in the other. To his alarm, Sansa is blushing at something Theon has said, her eyes flitting between his and her plate. The seat on Bran’s other side is open, so Robb drops into that one and greets his sister jovially.

“Oh!” she says, turning. “Robb, hello. How was your day?”

He groans. “Ser Rodrik was horrible with Jon and me - although we were distracted, so he was right about all the stupid mistakes we were making.” Brow furrowing into a frown, he says, “Actually, we were distracted because we saw you and Theon walking into the godswood together.” To his horror, Sansa blushes again, darker this time. “Why were you…?”

“Oh, Robb, we were just taking a walk,” she says, only a little scathing, rolling her eyes at him. “Besides, you’ll have to get used to seeing me walk around with Theon.”

“What does that mean?” he demands, glaring at Theon, who is smirking at him over Sansa’s shoulder.

“Oh-” She turns back to Theon, looking slightly panicked, and the older boy jumps in.

“You’ll know soon enough,” he says. “Lord Stark is about to make an announcement.”

This makes Robb gape at the pair of them — Sansa, still blushing, looking down at her hands, laced in her lap, and Theon, smug smirk still in place on his lips, resting a hand on Sansa’s shoulder for a short moment. What possible announcement can Father be about to make that would mean he’ll have to get used to seeing them together?

And then the horrible thought hits him; he blanches. Father cannot possibly mean to announce a betrothal between the pair of them, can he? Sansa and _Theon_? His sweet sister with the Greyjoy hostage held as a ward at Winterfell, prisoner for his father’s good behavior. (In truth, he only thinks this very rarely, and only when he is angry at Theon.) It makes no sense. What can Father be thinking?

Father enters, then, and before he even sits down, he calls for silence and says loudly, “I have an announcement to make: I am pleased to inform you that my daughter Sansa is betrothed to Theon, of House Greyjoy, the ward of House Stark.”

The hall is silent as a tomb for a single second — and then it explodes with noise. Protests ring out from near every corner of the room, the natural Northern distrust of Iron Islanders coming to the fore. Robb thinks for a moment of adding his voice to those speaking against the match, but he looks first at his sister’s face — and then his eyes drop down to where her hand is clenched tight around Theon’s, which holds her just as closely. Both have white fingers, and both, too, have stony looks on their faces — so he re-thinks his decision.

“Congratulations, brother,” he says, not as loudly as Father’s announcement, but not quietly either, holding a hand out for Theon to clasp.

Looking startled, the older boy says, “Thank you, Robb.” His lips quirk wryly before he adds, “Brother.”

“Thank you, Robb,” Sansa echoes, and her eyes are tear-bright when his meet them, but her smile is just as bright. “I- We appreciate your support.” He sees her hand squeeze Theon’s; the older boy lifts her hand to his lips and brushes a gentle kiss across her knuckles. Sitting on Sansa’s other side, Robb only sees the flush of her cheeks to gauge her response, but he also sees the slightly heated look in Theon’s eyes.

A warning glare does little to deter Theon, though, because his gaze does not waver from Sansa’s face; he has not yet let go of her hand, still lifted halfway between them.

“I’m happy for you, Sansa,” Bran says sweetly. “You’ll be happy together; I know it.”

Eyes laughing now, though she schools her expression to a solemn one (he only knows her thoughts by the way her eyes meet his before she looks down at Bran), she looks at their little brother and asks, “How do you know?”

“The Heart Tree showed me,” Bran says with an open smile that turns wounded when Robb, Sansa, and Theon all start snickering. “It _did_!” he insists.

“Of course, Bran,” Sansa says, having schooled her mirth soonest, smacking Theon’s arm and reaching across Bran to smack Robb’s, too. “What did it show you?”

“You were smiling and laughing,” Bran says, looking up at her with a gaze that is at once child-innocent and oddly intense, “and watching your children play.”

The smile that Sansa had forced her twitching lips into fades from her face. “What-” Her head turns to look at Theon, whose eyes have gone wide. “Bran, has the Heart Tree shown you anything else?”

Bran nods hesitantly, and Sansa meets Robb’s eyes over their little brother’s head. She looks too concerned for a girl of just thirteen. Setting a hand on Bran’s shoulder, Robb says, “The next time it shows you something, come find me, all right?” Clearly Bran believes what he is saying, and has not just made it up for Sansa’s benefit.

“What else have you seen?” Theon asks, a hand settling on Sansa’s back, rubbing up and down gently.

Bran’s eyes darken with worry. “I saw Father going South, to the King… he died in the South.” He shakes his head. “Only Father isn’t going anywhere, so it doesn’t make sense — it can’t happen.”

Sansa’s eyes widen, and she looks over her shoulder at Theon. Whatever the older boy sees in her eyes makes him reach out and grip her upper arm, squeezing gently. “How could he know?” he hears her whisper, sounding frightened.

“I don’t know,” Theon replies quietly.

“Sansa?” Bran says, his voice high and worried.

She meets his eyes over Bran’s head, and he sees his own fear mirrored there. For Father _is_ about to leave Winterfell for the South, though Bran should have no knowledge of it at all.

Settling a hand on Bran’s shoulder, Sansa says, “Bran, even if you did see something that is to happen, it has not happened yet. It can still be averted, can it not?”

“I… I suppose so,” Bran says, somewhat reluctantly.

Theon, hand still on Sansa’s back, says, quietly, “This changes things, Robb. We can’t just tell Lord Stark about this the next time it happens.”

“Robb, it was a vision from the Heart Tree,” Sansa adds, voice pleading. “If Bran saw danger… Father hasn’t left the North since he came back from the- the Greyjoy Rebellion.” Her eyes flit sideways, toward Theon, but she continues, “When else could it be? We have to warn him.”

* * *

Robb agrees easily, so after dinner, they all go to Father’s solar together - her and Theon, Bran, and Robb. Knocking at the door, with Theon’s hand on her back and Bran’s clutched tight in hers, she worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

“What is it?” Father asks when they all file into his solar. “What has you all looking so solemn?”

The boys exchange glances, dilly-dallying until Sansa rolls her eyes and says, “Father, Bran has had visions from the Heart Tree.”

Narrowing his eyes, Father says, “And from your faces, I would guess they weren’t good.”

“Well,” she replies, blushing, “that’s not exactly true - we found out because he told us about one he had of- of Theon and I… and our children.” Her cheeks feel like they are on fire when she finishes speaking, but she holds Father’s gaze.

“And the others?” Father asks. “Bran, how long has this been happening?”

Her little brother shrugs. “A year, maybe? I thought they were just daydreams at first, but then one really happened — it was when Arya stabbed Sansa’s hand with her sewing needle.”

“You saw that?” Sansa demands. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Shrugging again, Bran says, “I didn’t know it would really happen.”

“The reason we’re here, Lord Stark,” Theon interjects — before this can get any more out of hand — “is because he saw one of you. Bran, tell him.”

“You went South, Father,” Bran says nervously. She squeezes his hand, encouraging him to go on. “You rode South with just a few men, and talked to the King — or, at least, I think he was the King — he had a golden crown that looked like antlers on — and you died.”

Father’s brow furrows into a troubled expression. “Was that it, Bran? How did I die in this… vision?”

“Someone came into your chamber in the night and slit your throat,” Bran says, trembling slightly. Sansa gasps, her free hand flying to her mouth.

Rising from his desk and coming around it to crouch in front of Bran, Father asks, “Did you see who it was?” voice grave.

Bran shakes his head. “He wore a dark cloak with a hood.”

“It’s all right, Bran,” Father soothes, setting a hand on his upper arm. “Thank you for telling me this.”

“It won’t happen, will it, Father?” her sweet little brother asks, brows pulled together in worry.

“All will be well, Bran,” Father replies. “Go on to bed, now.” His eyes indicate that the order does not include the three older children who stand before him. Once the door closes behind Bran, Father sighs and says, looking at her, “And you believe him?”

“I do,” she replies. “He can’t lie very well; he always looks at his feet when he does. He looked straight at me or Robb the whole time.”

“Lord Stark, what will you do?” Theon asks from beside her, hand still on her back, though his thumb sweeps back and forth gently.

“You can’t still be thinking of _going_, can you?” Robb demands, looking incredulously at Father.

Sighing heavily, Father says, “I must, Robb. Jon Arryn entrusted me with information the King must learn, and I do not trust anyone else with it.”

“Send me,” Robb protests. “I would never break your trust.”

“I do not doubt that you would never do so intentionally,” Father says. “But it might happen some other way. And if what Bran says is true, I would not place that danger on your head.”

He refuses to be swayed and sends them all to their beds; Robb storms off down the corridor, heading away from the family chambers. Likely he is going to swing a practice sword at the target dummies — and has entirely forgotten that he doesn’t trust Theon around her.

At the door, though, Theon had ushered Robb out first, then offered her his elbow — the elbow she is still holding. “Walk me to my room, Theon?” she says hopefully.

“Certainly,” he replies, looking down and meeting her eyes; she blushes but holds his gaze for as long as she can, not wanting to seem the blushing maiden (even though she most certainly is, on both counts). They walk to her room in silence, both of them nodding at the guard stationed at the entrance to the family quarters. At her doorway, she pauses, looking up at Theon, feeling her insides twist in such a way that she can’t tell if it is pleasurable or not. She watches him regard her just as nervously as she does him — much different from the look he gave her earlier, at dinner, when he kissed her hand — though she hopes her nerves are not as visible as are his. “Good night, Lady Sansa,” Theon says with a slight bow just before he turns and leaves.

She feels oddly disappointed, though she doesn’t know what she was expecting. Closing her door behind her, she leans against it and sighs happily. The letter she’d pilfered from Mother’s correspondence several years ago, looking for news from the capital — the letter from Aunt Lysa — had cured her of the wistful, girlish dreams she’d had of one day wedding the Crown Prince. Aunt Lysa’s description of Cousin Robin’s cat, laid neatly outside their door, disemboweled and skinned, was so disgusting that she wondered how he could possibly really be the prince. But she’d rather not wed someone who skins the cats of people he’s supposed to be at least a little respectful to — the son of his father’s Hand! — thank you very much.

That had been a few years ago, a few years after Theon arrived in Winterfell, scrawny and scowling. By the time her dreams of Prince Joffrey turned to dust, though, he had gained both muscle and good humor — too much of the latter, many in Winterfell would say. But he was the only youth there of appropriate rank and age to even possibly be a match for her, so she had thought of him whenever she thought of whom she might wed, once she was old enough. To have it be real…! It was more than she’d dared to hope for. She had thought she’d have to marry the son of one of Father’s bannermen, someone she didn’t know at all.

A faint, dreamy smile on her face, she crossed the room and undressed, pulling her nightdress over her head, and crawled beneath her furs. Even in summer, even with the pipes heating Winterfell’s walls, it was common to use furs to ward off the nighttime chill.

The squirmy feeling from her belly has shifted into an ache slightly lower that makes her frown and squirm about a bit in bed to try to alleviate it. Nothing she tries is effective, and she turns onto her side, scowling at her pillow, and grumpily waits for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing fast and loose with Bran’s abilities here… Kind of combining greensight/green dreams with the whole Three-Eyed Raven thing. I’m probably going to call this “greensight,” but I know it’s not really the same thing. (Unless I’ve somehow miraculously got this right? I haven’t actually either read ASOIAF or _really_ watched GOT (though I have watched some individual character arcs), so tbh most of my knowledge is from fics…). Also - I’m keeping Bran’s coloring from the show.


End file.
